


Watercolors

by RaisonDetre



Series: Forever// Soulmates AU [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Soulmates, Claudia is a painter, Hurt!Stiles, M/M, Mates, No sexual interaction between Peter and Stiles, Sadness, Sick!Claudia, Stiles is six, am sorry, honest Peter is honest, hospital lobby rooms, somewhat-comforting!Peter, the color red
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisonDetre/pseuds/RaisonDetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles,” she whispered, cracking her fingers apart and revealing two streaks of crimson trailing through her lips. “Call 9--”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watercolors

**Author's Note:**

> Not as good as usual, but eh. Thinking of making a collection featuring moments where the color red-- AKA blood mostly-- is featured in this same verse. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy.  
> (Sorry it is so short)

The wooden easel blocked the window, from behind it, Claudia Stilinski studied her only son. Her eyes drew into slits as she inspected him, overalls rolled up to his ankles, face dirtied from playing in his mother’s garden although he was instructed the opposite, and a daisy tucked behind his ear. 

 

“Mommy!” Stiles moaned, already over abruptly becoming her muse. “Can I move?” 

 

“Have you ever been able to stay still, sweetie?” She laughed as she took the first shade of paint. After five years of Stiles’s birth, Claudia had learned the only way to capture her son completely was to use watercolor, the paint provided a movement that the child constantly possessed and a softness that was somehow always present in his doe-eyes. 

 

He took that as an excuse to move. He stood up, tugging on his denim overalls and glancing around the garage-made-studio. Above him, paintings hung on the wall with hardly any organization and foldable tables were full of paper, unfinished projects, and different types of medias. 

 

“Let me see your eyes,” Claudia’s voice came softly from his left. Stiles turned at her words, grinning as he watched his mother’s nose scrunch up with careful thought. “I can never get your eyes right,” she whispered beneath her breath before she began to paint with a dark brown, her gaze kept flickering from her canvas to her son’s face. 

 

Stiles came closer, curiosity getting the better of him as he tried to see over his mother’s painting shirt-- a retired plaid button-up she stole from John’s side of the closet-- before Claudia’s hips bumped him lightly, enough to make him lose the view. 

 

“Moooommy,” Stiles moaned, curious as to why Claudia wouldn’t allow him to see. His mother was capable of turning anything beautiful by a delicate twitch of her right hand. He took the end of her shirt and jumped high enough to manage a glance at the masterpiece. 

 

In the middle of his face, a blob of red covered his nose. He turned, confused, to stare at his mother. Claudia’s free hand had become flush against her mouth, her dark eyes wide with an emotion Stiles had never witnessed in her kind expression. _Fear_. And just like the violent shade of red, fear looked all wrong on his mother’s face.

 

“Stiles,” she whispered, cracking her fingers apart and revealing two streaks of crimson trailing through her lips. “Call 9--” her body trembled viciously until she doubled over, one hand catching around her stomach as her other pressed back to her mouth, bubbles of red managed to escape through the tight line of her shaking fingers.

 

Stiles moved to the phone, because his father was a cop. The phrase 9-1-1 had practically been his first words. With tiny, chubby hands, he wrapped his grasp around the phone and brought it to his face. He smooshed one wobbly palm to his watery eyes as he tried to rub the sobs away. 

 

“Uh- uh,” he whispered after the woman on the phone did the regular introduction. The six year-old hiccupped between sobbing as he stared at his shaking mother. “Blood is coming out of my mommy’s mouth.” 

 

*

 

The smell of antiseptic and sickness is heavy, even in the lobby where Stiles waits. The six year old is pushing his nose underneath Peter’s neck, grasping around the man’s shoulder as he seeks a comfort he can only find in the werewolf. His scent is calming, and familiar, and the second best smell in the world aside for his mother’s paints. 

 

“Is mommy going to be okay?” He asks, tucking up his feet and sliding completely into Peter’s lap. Beside them, a couple of his dad’s officers wait for the results, as does Talia and Peter. It wasn’t a place for children, it was clear in the way that they had left the rest of the Hale children back home. 

 

“My darling,” Peter whispers loud enough for the boy to hear. The child moves far enough to stare Peter in his muted blue eyes. The werewolf’s throat tightens-- because much like Stiles, he possessed the inability to lie to his mate’s face. “Your mother is not well.” Which is hardly the half of it. She has been wreaking of sickness for the past year, and even at Talia’s begging, she had ignored the signs of long-term illness.

 

“How bad?” Stiles’s eyes gaze up, they blink into runny honey as he curls his dark brows up and slides his mouth down. Two seconds away from sobbing, but he’s trying to keep it in, hopelessly attempting to seem unaffected although Peter can see right through him. 

 

“Well,” Peter combs his hands through the boy’s short hair, trying to think of a way to not shatter Stiles’s soft heart. “The doctor will decide that,” he is such a coward, but he can not be the one to look Stiles’s in the eyes and implode his world. 

 

“I think she may be really bad,” the boy whispers, as if he is scared of his words. Peter’s throat tightens. Because of course he knows, Stiles was sharp for his age; he knew enough to gather that hacking up blood was two steps in the wrong direction. 

 

Peter doesn’t say anything. The kid wants silence; for once in his life, he’s happy for the room to be void of conversation. Where Stiles’s rich words and helpless laughter constantly creates a picture of life, he sits like a statue in Peter’s lap, only moving his chest in efforts to breathe.

 

Peter can’t help but gather the boy closer. His fingers twitch as if he can coax the emotional pain out of Stiles, until his knuckles turn white and he restrains himself from clutching the boy tight enough to snap him in half. Although Peter wants to drag all of any pain Stiles will ever have the misfortune to experience, he will not be able to take all of it away. 

The werewolf can’t help but grit his teeth at the revelation.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me whatcha y'all thought! :)


End file.
